


Echoes of a Voice That I Used to Know

by DomLerrys



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Community: inceptiversary, Coping Mechanisms, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Music, POV Arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 14:15:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7511512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DomLerrys/pseuds/DomLerrys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dom is not fine, not by a long shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Echoes of a Voice That I Used to Know

**Author's Note:**

> Posted on [my tumblr](http://domlerrys.tumblr.com/post/147139256577/inceptiversary-2016-inception-30-day-challenge) for the Inception 30-Day Challenge.
> 
> _DAY09: Cobb’s favourite band/genre of music._

Dom is not fine, not by a long shot.

In the first months after Mal’s death, he lost pounds and pounds of weight and hours and hours of sleep. His once athletic frame was hollowed, his complexion grey and weak. His clever eyes were dull and lifeless. He moved about in long sighs, with unseeing eyes red from crying, always watery and always lost in whatever world he was living in. Arthur had to bathe him, feed him, make him walk from time to time. He was almost always silent, save for his brief sleep bouts, when he restlessly thrashed and mumbled and screamed, waking himself up. Arthur then slowly rocked him for hours, his heart clenching every time Dom wailed Mal’s name and scrabbled at his tear-soaked shirt, as if Dom thought he was her and didn’t want her to leave him. Or maybe Arthur was just a warm body without a face or a name.

Dom eventually got better, and he started looking after himself again. Arthur saw him shy away from his clinic touch in the bathroom, one day, with a muttered _thanks I’ll do it myself_. He left him alone but kept the door open and never left him out of sight.

One day, as they were nestled in the dirty booth of a diner, Dom pulled a face at some sub-par hamburger and looked Arthur in the eye with a frown.

“Why are there pickles in this?” he said, lifting a side of the bun. “You know I hate them.”

He had eaten sandwiches with pickles for the last five months.

Even in his best moments, though, there were some things that reminded Arthur that Dom was far from being alright. He flinched every time he caught some strands of French, and for whatever reason, the sound of broken glass. He couldn’t get near the ocean. He kept spinning Mal’s top and fiddling with his own wedding ring. Eventually that one disappeared, but Arthur suspected it was always on him. And at sunset, when his expression turned more longing, he pulled out his ancient Sony Walkman and listened to recordings of Mal singing. Mal had had a beautiful voice, round and mellow, like warm chocolate. She sang like she did everything else, with passion and some cheekiness, like it was a secret. Dom and her used to go to concerts, to the opera, to country fairs, where they would clumsily dance to the rhythm of the music and trip and clap their hands and laugh (neither of them had ever been good dancers). There was always some music in their house, permeating the warm wooden walls. Arthur remembers Mal lulling James to sleep cradling him in her arms and swaying her hips to a hummed lullaby. Now Dom doesn’t listen to anything else but her, letting murmured words roll out of his lips. By now, even Arthur knows all the songs by heart.

They are some days into the Fischer job, and Arthur’s nerves are frayed already. He shouldn’t have let this madness go so far. It’s suicide. He hasn’t cared for Dom all this time to end up letting him be killed. He’s navigating the dark streets of Paris, empty but for the last few people going home for dinner. He is returning to the warehouse after hours, knowing that Dom is there. He wants to convince him to drop the job. There _must_ be something else they can try, something more well-advised.

He fishes his keys from the right pocket of his coat and opens the front door, letting himself in. There’s a faint buzz drifting from the lit area of the big room. His ears immediately perk up, trying to assess whether he should prepare for violent action. His fingers twitch next to where he carries his Glock while he cautiously moves forward, but he finally recognises the low hum as music. He expects the dulcet tones of Mal’s voice, but that’s not what he hears.

It’s David Bowie.

Arthur abruptly stops as he feels his eyes widen. Bowie keeps on singing about a lad insane. Dom grumbles some lyrics.

Arthur is not even breathing as he retreats slowly, step by step, until he reaches the front door. He slips out of the warehouse into the chill of the Parisian night. He rests his back against the closed door, exhaling a shuddering breath, and makes his decision.

He will see the end of this job, be it the last thing he does.

**Author's Note:**

> [David Bowie [1973] _Aladdin Sane (1913-1938-197?)_](https://youtu.be/ar271H-2VLg)


End file.
